


Exit Left Lane

by raging_storm (orphan_account)



Series: Storm's Old Stuff [2]
Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Anxiety, Car Radio, Comedic Sections, Depression, Driving, Fighting, Gay Josh, Gay Tyler, Guns, M/M, Migraine, News Media, No Sex, No Smut, Sadness, Self-Harm, Songfic, Suicide Attempt, The Judge - Freeform, Violence, Weatherman!Tyler, joshler - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 21:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12262731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/raging_storm
Summary: Tyler hates his job. Day in, day out, it's the same old drabble.Report the forecast.But he realizes just how much he might care about his job when he's pushed out of it by Josh Dun.Exit left lane.





	Exit Left Lane

He's a weatherman for some irrelevant news station no one's ever heard of.

News Channel Five it's called, a generic name for a generic channel, it plays the weather, highlights disasters, and nothing else. It's a mystery why it still airs, how it gets any viewer attention. But it does. People just tend to not know what you were talking about should you drop a reference to the channel to someone.

He hates his job. He hates his life.

Everyday it's the same, nothing new to break the monotony, his schedule is the same. Red Bull in the morning in place of coffee. No breakfast. Trudging into work at eight o'clock. Delivering the weather as he scans notes written up by someone in another department, with the fake weather map broadcasted behind him, the little smiley suns and clouds so cheesy he wants to puke every time he looks at them. Going home. Eating dinner in the dark. Sleep. Repeat.

It's a vicious cycle.

He wonders why he hasn't been fired yet. He's so bland when he talks; everything he says is matter-of-fact, delivered in a disinterested tone, it really would drive away viewers. Or rather, the little viewers they had. Most tend to migrate towards CNN or Fox, or one of the larger news channels broadcasted across America.

News Channel Five, it's called, it's a generic name for a generic channel. It plays the weather and highlights disasters. Nothing else.

He goes into work with a Red Bull in his hand and one Lexapro in his stomach. He slept horrible, and he's  _irritable_ now. Guess the weather is going to sound like a rant today.

As people in the studio set up the cameras and too many technicians in hats bustle around, he surveys everyone from behind his counter. There's Chris in the corner who's chatting to Nick by the water cooler, Brendon, his supervisor, clicking a pen in his hand repeatedly as he glances at his watch, Mark, whom everyone just calls "Esh" on account of the fact that his last name is Eshleman, at the center camera. 

He sighs. Eight fifty-three. Forecast starts in seven.

He glances briefly at his notes, lying there on his desk, before standing up by that fake map and throwing a smile on his face. Oftentimes, people would actually send in comments about how he said the weather. They do waste their time on that, going to the News Channel Five website and filing an actual complaint. About his monotone voice.

 _You sound like you're at a funeral,_ one comment said, or  _Can you try to sound like you're interested?_

Stupid comments like those make him want to throw something.

He asked his supervisor why he was still on the job.

"Because you're fucking hot, dude," was Brendon's reply, ever so blunt, every inch the teenager he seemed to still be even at age twenty-nine. "People want to see your face in the morning."

He doesn't know what they see in his face. He stands in front of the mirror a lot, and can never see the person Brendon describes.

He won't deny he really can't dredge up enough energy to deliver the forecast properly.

"Thunderstorms down in Columbus, Ohio," he'd say blandly. Or, "Clouds. Snow. A slight drizzle in Dayton."

He's so unenthusiastic.

And he doesn't know this will be his last forecast as the morning weatherman. Brendon never gives him any notice, and when he's finished and packing up Brendon stops him, hand on his shoulder, serious look on his face.

"Tyler," he says, and Tyler  _knows._ His lips twitch, he licks them, and he knows.

"News Channel Five is reaching a whole new tier of relevancy, as you will. We've got better sponsors, more spots open for new material, shit like that. You're just not what we're looking for in our revitalized station."

As if being a morning weatherman required any talent at all.

And Brendon flashes him an apologetic look, and says, "Consider this your warning. We're moving you down to Saturday night weather."

A demotion. He's strangely indifferent.

But still, he says "No", and Brendon raises an eyebrow. And Tyler says, "I'll hand in my resignation."

"Why?" Brendon scrunches his eyebrows. "At least think about it," he says.

Tyler is willful. Tyler is stubborn. And Tyler doesn't want to be demoted. It's a matter of pride, nothing more, nothing less.

"This is my final choice." Tyler doesn't care. He doesn't.

"Tyler, stay and think about it. It's not a big replacement, you're still with us here, consider it a...relocation."

Tyler doesn't want to be relocated. He feels odd, and he wants to relocate - dislocate - the shoulder of the next person he sees. The anger comes out of nowhere, he turns on his heel and starts walking away.

"Tyler, I'm talking to you-"

He stops. He turns. "At least have the courtesy to tell me who's outing me of my job," Tyler says.

Brendon wipes his forehead where a sheen of sweat is appearing. The studio is so hot. Tyler doesn't look at Brendon, he stares at the bright, fluorescent sign that reads NEWS CHANNEL 5 in blue.

"His name's Joshua," Brendon says. "He starts Monday."

That's only four days from now.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Tyler grips his briefcase and his knuckles turn white.

"We were going to give you some notice, but didn't get around to it." As if anyone from here was busy. No, they're disorganised, and they didn't care.

This "Joshua" is stealing his job. 

Tyler is willful. Tyler is stubborn. 

Tyler may be more passionate about his job than he realizes. 

"Fuck you, Brendon," he says. They always had a better employee relationship than the norm. Bordering on a real friendship.

Brendon shrugs, says nothing more than "Whatever you say," then turns away. The morning newsman is being miked by Esh. And still, he has a final word. "You're not the only one. Channel Five is undergoing major personnel reforms." 

As if that was any excuse.

Tyler leaves quietly, wondering how his spit will look on Joshua's face on Monday morning.

\--

"Dude, it sucks that you're losing your job." Esh takes a sip of beer, leans back in his wooden chair so only the front two legs rest on the ground, squints at Tyler.

 Tyler sighs. "Guess so." They sit in a bar somewhere downtown of the station at eight o'clock, and they sit because Esh listens to everyone's problems, and he responded immediately when Tyler said he needed some company. Now Tyler rants to him about how stupid Brendon is for replacing him, how unfair the world is, other shit like that. And Esh only listens.

"How do you feel about it?"

Tyler scrapes his chewed-down nails across the wooden table. He tries to tune out the raucous crowd, the talk, the laughter. "I hate it," he admits.

"No shit." Esh listens, he's sympathetic, but he's blunt and to the point. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

By it he means Joshua, the new guy. He asked Brendon, and he did a bit of digging, and he came up with Joshua Dun, who used to work for another major news station. Esh was at a loss when he told Tyler, because who the fuck would quit that job to work at News Channel Five, but then he found out that Joshua was apparently fired from his previous position.

"No clue why," Esh had said, with a smug smile on his face. "But if he's that shit at his job, he'll be gone in no time." That didn't comfort Tyler much.

Now Tyler puts his head in his hands, rubs his eyes. "No clue," he mumbles. "I'm just so fucking angry. I'm getting upstaged by this guy, demoted to make room for him, all because of some stupid reforms. What does this guy have that I don't?" 

Esh is a good guy. Esh is mostly a nice guy. And it's because of these traits that he keeps his mouth shut. Tyler doesn't notice. He never notices.

"Tyler, it's not even that big of a deal," Esh says easily, and he downs the rest of his drink. 

"Yeah, it is. The pay is less, the timeframe sucks. You think I want to go out at six at night and report the weather?"

"No," Esh says.

"Just quit, then," Esh says.

Tyler growls. "I don't want to quit. I want my job."

"You hate it there anyways."

Tyler goes back to scraping his nails over the table. It hurts, but it feels good at the same time. "That's not the point. This happened so suddenly, I got no notice, and I'm getting  _replaced._ "

"So you've said. Many times." Esh yawns. "Look, I want to help you out. Really, I do. But I can't help a guy who doesn't want to be helped."

"I do want to be helped," Tyler snaps. "So help me out. Talk to Brendon, something."

"Brendon won't change his mind," Esh says. "He can't, anyways. That's not how it works, bud. If Joshua starts on Monday, he starts on Monday." There's an obvious condescending tone to Esh's voice now. And Tyler doesn't notice. He never notices.

"I've got to get going," Esh says. He stands. He looks at Tyler with pity. "You'll adjust," he says.

Tyler sits. 

Esh leaves.

\--

He sleeps badly that night. His dreams are plagued with blurry figures, all of which he imagines to be Joshua. They wear similar smirks upon their faces, walk in a pompous manner, they  _spit_ on Tyler, thinking they're so much more superior.

Maybe he's taking it too seriously. Maybe Esh is right. But in the real world, you don't fucking throw someone in the dog house and not tell them. Tyler doesn't know who he's madder at; the soon-to-be weekday weatherman, or Brendon.

When he wakes, he's crankier than usual, and he forgoes the daily Red Bull in favor of an actual breakfast. Eggs. Toast. Cup of orange juice. It makes him feel better. He downs a Lexapro with the juice.

Apparently, there's no forecast in the mornings as they brief the new guy and prepare Tyler for his new position, because he never actually gave any notice as to whether or not he was quitting. Brendon probably figured he'd stay. Tyler thinks having no forecast is about as stupid as it gets. As if Channel Five wasn't already a joke.

He doesn't know how to spend his time, so he sits in the dark of his kitchen and conjures up images of what he imagines Joshua to look like, and creates confrontations with him in his mind.

He imagines what he'd say to Joshua.

He imagines what he'd do to Joshua.

Maybe he's cracking up. Why is he so angry over a job he hates, when he isn't even getting fired? He doesn't know, but he associates it with matter of personal pride. He feels slighted.

Brendon sends him some new information that he's required to read. When he gets that email he shuts his laptop so hard he's sure the screen cracked. And when he brings himself to open it again, it is. That does nothing to improve his mood.

He wishes he hadn't spent four years of his life going through school to get his bachelor's degree in science. When he was younger, he was caught up in idealistic dreams. The reality was so much different, and now it's too late to do anything else.

Monday draws closer, and Tyler clenches his fist so hard that his nails leave marks on his palm.

 


End file.
